


tender blues

by alienscully



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Internal Conflict, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienscully/pseuds/alienscully
Summary: This doesn't have to fit in an specific moment in time, however, I wrote as if Paul had taken John with him on his trip to France on November 6, 1966 (also John wouldn't have met Yoko when he did and yay!).
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	tender blues

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't have to fit in an specific moment in time, however, I wrote as if Paul had taken John with him on his trip to France on November 6, 1966 (also John wouldn't have met Yoko when he did and yay!).

He came with a shout in Paul’s hand. Hot pleasure washed over him. Paul continued to thrust erratically for a few more seconds – that felt like minutes to John’s hypersensitive arsehole – then came with a “God, John, _fuck_ ,” the rush of Paul’s semen inside him making John’s stomach swoop.

His legs, already locked around Paul’s waist, drew him closer as he held onto his lover for a moment. Once their breaths were more steady, Paul pulled out and laid next to him, running a hand through his sweaty forehead and the hair sticking to it. His black mustache was gleaming under the moonlit room, and although John initially hated it, he now felt an overwhelming need to taste it.

And so he did. Wrapping his hand around Paul’s neck while leaning in his elbow, he kissed the man’s mustache and lips with the same passion of minutes, hours, days, months, _years_ ago, feeling Paul’s lazy grin in response.

“Hm, Johnny,” he chuckled lightly “never took you for the sentimental type.”

“Ha! Not me,” he started planting kissed along Paul’s jawline and rosy cheek, still hot from their previous activity. “always knew you had a bit of a queer in you.”

“Don’t we all, huh?” Paul laughed, then immediately yawned. “Stop it now, boy, we can give it another go tomorrow. This old man wants to sleep.”

“Shurup, sod.” John stopped his kisses and grinned at his friend, lazy fuck, already closing his eyes in peaceful slumber. “Christ, you’re really gonna leave yer buddy dry?”

“Yup.” Paul didn’t even flinch.

John rolled his eyes and rested his head on the pillow. “Arse.”

“Hmhm. Tomorrow.”

John smiled at that, turning his head to look at that man he loved so much, the one who took over his whole heart, body and soul. And John hated him for it.

There was always a tinge or bitterness when he slept next to Paul, always the haunting feeling that he could get up and leave the second John closed his eyes. He never did of course: when Paul left, they both knew it anyway, so why bother with the post-coital delicacies.

But John wanted to make sure of that, that Paul wouldn’t leave him without John’s consent, never to come back again and taking John’s everything with him, leaving behind only the ghost of a boy he used to know and just happened to drag along to his success and now wanted to get rid of. Like John was a fucking parasite.

Christ. How did John survive _twenty six years_ inside his own brain?

Paul looked so peaceful now, probably already in a deep sleep and counting sheep. John wanted to eat him _alive_.

He satisfied this hunger by simply nuzzling against the crook of Paul’s neck, planting the smallest of kisses along his jugular, smelling and tasting the other man’s sweat as he did so.

John felt a hand on his head, not holding it, not pulling it, just caressing the bird nest he called hair. “Oh, Johnny,” John’s heart and kisses briefly stopped at the words that came out so soft and silent, Paul might as well have never said it. 

But he did, he did say it. And John’s mind knew what to make of it.

Nothing visibly changed: Paul was still sleepy, not up for a round two of the Lennon/McCartney special and still cuddling John, who was still planting tiny kisses anywhere between his jawline and collarbone; but they now held a different meaning now.

John felt as though he could, no, had to show Paul nobody could love him like John could, not in all the ways John could and _certainly_ not with the same intensity as John could. He wanted Paul to know that, no matter what happened from tonight on, that if he got up right then and never looked back, he would still feel John’s breath on his neck whenever Jane, or any slag from the myriad of conquests Paul held onto, _oh, so dearly,_ pressed their lips against him; that no matter what body Paul was pushing against, whoever was under or on top of him, it would be John’s ghost he would miss. John and no one else.

The caressing on his hair stopped slowly, but the phantom of its movements were still burning in his scalp and John knew Paul was out of this world for the next few hours. He halted the rain of kisses and laid his head where his lips were previously working instead.

Rational John knew, as a fact, that the time would come where Paul would marry _Lady Jane_ and give birth to fifteen gorgeous ginger babies and forget that this moment even happened at all. Rational John also knew that, in spite of contradictory evidence, Paul could _not_ read his fucking mind and didn’t truly understand what this moment meant to John. What it meant to them.

But Emotional John decided to decapitate Rational John for the time – as he always did – choosing to think with his heart for a few blissful minutes before sleepiness took over, and he knew: He belonged to Paul. Paul belonged to him. And nothing, _nothing_ could possibly change that.

For now.


End file.
